


Shake the Dust

by Ashesofthefirststar



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Vampire Slayer, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Lance and Shiro having a strong brotherly relationship? In my fic?, Lance experiences cannon typical insecurities, M/M, Minor Character Death, More likely that you think, Secrets, Slayer!Lance, Slow Burn, Vampire Keith (Voltron), Watcher Shiro, Witch Allura, Witch Pidge, Worldbuilding, attempts at humor, everyone gets development, nothing over the top, plot heavy, weapon specalist Hunk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 00:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14344338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashesofthefirststar/pseuds/Ashesofthefirststar
Summary: All Lance wants is two things: To be a good slayer and to be a good son.... And maybe, hopefully not die while he's at it.xXxOr: Shiro says every slayer has a destiny, a preordained mission that will find them one way or another.Lance didn't think the journey to his would be offset by sparing the life of Keith, a freshly turned vampire and the brother of his Watcher, Shiro.Nor did he think the hunt for Keith's soul would lead him to the end of the world or that he'd be so different when he got there.





	Shake the Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. Let me be clear with my intentions. The characters in this AU start off similarly to how their counterparts do in Voltron. Likewise their arcs parallel their counterparts. For this reason, the characters may seem a little underdeveloped at first, but they will only grow from here. I've put a lot of thought into each one of their arcs, and I'm hoping the end result will show just that. 
> 
> While this is a Klance story, it's my goal to create dynamic relationships between all the characters. So be patient with me when it comes to Keith and Lance. We'll get there.
> 
> Keith doesn't show up until the next chapter, but if it makes it any better, that chapter will be heavily about him. This first chapter is mostly set up, but I hope you guys can enjoy it as much as I've enjoyed writing it.
> 
> There will be a Spotify playlist to go with this story that i'll add to every chapter. Each song will be matched with a certain scene. I'll post all of that below. 
> 
> Thoughts and criticism are always welcomed, especially about characterization.

“Say hello to my little friend,” Lance said, both his chin and crossbow lifted triumphantly from where he stood in the archway. One glance around the moonlit room, however, and he felt ready to throw his crossbow out the window and maybe never pick it up again.

 

_Empty._

 

 _“_ Lance.”

 

He turned to regard his Watcher, see just what damage had been done. Not that it was necessary. Lance had Shiro's varying levels of ‘ _I'm disappointed in you_ ’ voices ingrained like a pavlovian response.

 

Ah, Shiro was applying pressure to his eyes. That meant this was the good ol’ ' _I feel a headache coming on'_ disappointment. That one was actually rare, seeing as Shiro was a pretty patient guy.

 

“When I said to go for the element of surprise, I didn't mean kick in the door while quoting The Godfather.”

 

“Sorry man, but this is booooringgg.” Lance knew he was whining, but he wasn't above it, not when he was so busy that he had to create a daily itinerary just to plan out bathroom breaks. Okay, it wasn't that bad, but the point still stood. He needed experience like yesterday, and he wouldn't get that by lazing around in empty corps motels. “Seriously, this is what? The fifth crypt we've raided? And do you know how many vamps we've seen?” Shiro opened his mouth, no doubt about to lecture him, but not before Lance said, “I'll tell you how many we've seen. Nada. Zip. A big fat zero. What's the point of being the Slayer if I don't get to slay anything?”

 

Lance was pulled from his, what he considered to be, totally justifiable complaints by the sight of Pidge weaving through tombstones towards them. Hunk was at her heels, looking apologetically at every grave sight they trampled over, even stopping to rearrange a vase of plastic flowers he'd knocked over. He turned towards the pair, ready to call out, but stopped at the feeling of a hand on his shoulder.

 

“I know this can be tedious, but patrols are an important part of your duties. No one said the job of a slayer would be glamorous.” Shiro paused, eyes narrowing. “Besides, we've already had this discussion. I know you have obligations to your family, but patrols really need to be done after midnight. Right now is when vampires are out hunting.”

 

“Do you want to be the one to explain that to my mom, or should I? Oh yeah, that'll go over great! Hey mom, sorry I can't watch Penny, just gotta go run around a graveyard, slaying vampires with my school librarian. Don't worry! I won't be out too late.”

 

“I know you can't tell your family about this, and I respect that you have expectations that don't revolve around being the Slayer,” Shiro said, dropping his hand from Lance's shoulder. “We’ll figure something out.”

 

That was decidedly ominous, but Lance wouldn't remark on it. Shiro was serious and dedicated, but he was also a good person, so Lance wouldn't worry about this something they would figure out and how it would affect his family. He already did that enough for other, non Watcher related reasons.

 

Lance checked his watch. It was about fifteen after ten. His mom's shift at the hospital started at eleven, so he’d need to leave soon. Even though he had, frustratingly, done nothing.

 

Lance had no problem patrolling later and interrupting a vampires dinner plans, but he didn't understand why they couldn't go into town, intercept them before they picked someone up.

 

“Just hear me out,” Lance said, holding up his free hand. “I get that this is their hangout an all, but it's like you said, they hunt at night. Right now, a vamps probably out there drinking from some poor soul like they're an open keg, and what am I doing? Playing crypt keeper!”

 

“This is a mausoleum, actually,” Pidge said from Lance's side, causing him to hiss in surprise and pin her with a glare. He swore she used some sort of teleportation magic to sneak up on him.

 

The walking jump scare, however, didn't even seem to notice his fright. She only looked past him as she casually pulled her hair into a stubby ponytail.

 

“Oh don't you have an encyclopedia to read or something, I was about to-

 

“Uh guys,” Hunk piped up from behind Pidge, his arms folded into himself as he held a stake close to his chest. “Not to be _that_ guy, but should we be talking so loud out in the open like this? What if we attracted vampires?”

 

“Hunk, buddy, that's kind've the point.”

 

Pidge rolled her eyes. “Shiro's right. Finding vampires before they lure in a victim is statically improbable.”

 

“What about my Slayer senses Shiro was talking about?!”

 

“The ones you haven't even began to master yet? That would be like using an outdated version of Google maps.”

 

Lance wanted to argue more, but as he'd been doing more often when coming up against Pidge's wit, he settled on silently hunching his shoulders and trying not to visibly pout.

 

Because here was the thing. Pidge was smart. Like, built a Nuclear fusion reactor for her third grade science fair, the love child of Nikola Tesla and Alan Turing sort’ve smart. Not to mention a wickedly powerful mage, and Lance was super grateful to have her on their side of the whole good vs. evil dichotomy that was going on. It was just, what someone had in brain power they often... lacked in social graces.

 

What Lance was trying to say is that Pidge could be condescending, unintentionally of course, and most if not all of the time, she was right in correcting him. It honestly wouldn't bother him at all if, well, he was the Slayer, and well-

 

But anyway, he met her and Hunk through Shiro. They were the only two students at their high school who knew that The Things That Went Bump in the Night were very real things. Shiro said that any human who knew about the supernatural but wasn't supernatural themselves were called Wise Men - which, seriously, not that Lance wasn't into a god ol’ Judeo Christian motif, but someone had to stop letting The Watchers name things. They had the creativity of a failed poet. Their own moniker was enough proof of that. He guessed Hunk would be considered a Wise Man. His moms made and sold magical weapons, despite not having any abilities themselves. Hunk even told him they once made a sword that could kill a god. Lance was sure there was a story behind that, and maybe he'd get to hear it one day, ya know, if he ever got the time between loitering in vacant cemeteries and pre-class training sessions with Shiro.

 

Pidge, on the other hand, while human, came from a long line of witches. She was practically dripping in supernatural essence, so that title didn't fit her as much.

 

Whatever you called them, Lance was surrounded by amazingly capable people. Hunk modified weapons for him and Pidge, even if he hadn't had much use for her magic yet, rivaled Shiro in her knowledge of the supernatural word.

 

When Shiro had approached him, gave him the whole ' _this is your destiny'_ spill that sounded as if it had been plagiarized straight  from the pages of one of his comic books, they had been surprised at how easily he accepted it, even more so when he let out an abrupt, bordering on crazed giggle of relief.

 

It was just, meeting them felt like being lost in a forest and looking down to find that you'd accidentally stepped on a map. After losing all of his friends In San Francisco and spending months trying to figure out if he was crazy or not, he finally had confirmation that he wasn't, people he could talk to without the risk of being sent to an insane asylum. The Scooby Gang, he had called them.

 

They weren't very close yet, but Lance was working on that. It was... a process. He was the Slayer to them, the one everyone had been waiting on, and honestly, he didn't even know if they accepted him as that, so friendship was...well, let's just say it was a good thing that Lance was as patient as he was persistent.

 

“It's not just that,” Shiro explained. “Do you remember how I said vampires have to live in the shadows?”

 

“Uh, yeah, but I sort’ve thought you were being literal, seeing as a vampires biggest threat is sunlight.”

 

“A vampire's biggest threat is the Slayer,” Shiro corrected. Lance didn't even bother to contain his eye roll. “But yes, literal and metaphorical. As much as vampires like to think of themselves as the apex predator, they don't fair well against a hoard of humans. Last time their existence in a town was discovered, they were ran out of it.”

 

“Meaning…”

 

“Meaning,” Pidge cut in, “they have to be discreet about who they eat.”

 

“Exactly. They feed on people who won't be missed. Typically the homeless.”

 

“Wait!” Hunk said suddenly, causing Lance to tense. “I just read an article last week about how the homeless population was at record lows. The governor contributed it to her new jobs program.”

 

“Well, I don't know about any job program, but I doubt it's contributing to the consistent decline.”

 

“Aw man,” Hunk laminated. “Is everything I know a lie?”

 

“You know more than most,” Pidge said.

 

“Okay?” Lance said, his tongue catching on the vowels. “So a classist society is cheesing over people below the poverty line. What else is new? What does that have to do with trying to stop vampires before they lure people back to their creepy, Sweeney Todd blood bank?”

 

“By being discreet predators, it makes vampires harder to hunt, but it's better that way. If it can be helped, we always want to keep civilians out of the loop when it comes to their existence.” He looked pointedly at Lance. “Or when it comes to the existence of you. At least for now.”

 

Ah, Lance had heard that one before. He got it, really. He wasn't ready, not trained enough. The supernatural world anticipated the arrival of the Slayer, but Shiro was worried about what sort of danger could come from that type of attention. It was reasonable, but despite that, some strange feeling moved up Lance's spine, using it like a xylophone and hitting the last note at base of his neck. He swelled with defiance, an urge to question Shiro, about what he wasn’t sure, but before he could say anything, his phone chirped.

 

His alarm.

 

“Oh rats,” Lance said, pulling out his phone to look at the time. “Speaking of death and gloom, my mom will kill me if I don't leave now.”

 

“We get in man, family comes first,” Hunk said, patting him on the back.

 

Lance shoved his phone back into his pocket. “You just don't want to be hanging around a cemetery anymore,” he said with a laugh in his voice.

 

“But can you really blame me?”

 

“Solid job team,” Shiro said, to which Pidge replied with, “We didn't do anything.”

 

Lance was inclined to agree with her, but still, he said, “Aw, come on, Pidge. Think of it as dress rehearsal, but for vamp killing.”

 

“Lance is right. We may not have successfully slayed anything, but it's still good to know how a patrol works,” Shiro said, his eyes floating to each of them before landing on Lance. “Pidge and I will figure out a way around your time restrictions. Until then, we'll keep up these practice patrols.”

 

With that, they all walked the trail that lead to the cemetery gates. Lance started to break apart his crossbow as he went, mentally high-fiving Hunk who had made one that could deconstruct, portable and much more bad-ass than his stake. Not dissing stakes or anything. Shiro certainly seemed to have a hard on for them, but to Lance, a carved piece of wood seemed less like a weapon you’d choose for yourself and more like something you'd pick up off the ground in the middle of a fight because you had nothing else and needed to improvise.

 

Once there, he knelt down to where his skateboard and backpack had been left to lean against some purple-leaf weeping tree and started to disarm himself. Pidge and Hunk both unhooked their bikes from the iron cast gate and Shiro just stood next to his side-road parked jeep and watched- ha, get it? Watched?

 

Lance slung his backpack straps snugly around both shoulders and carried his skateboard beneath his arm. “Hey! I was thinking about going to The Blade before patrols tomorrow,” he said as he moseyed over to where Pidge and Hunk straddled their bikes. “Do you guys want to come?”

 

“The Blade?” Hunk questioned. “You mean the music hall downtown?”

 

“Yeah! I've heard a lot of people chill there after school. I figured we could listen to some tunes, pick up some ladies. Ya know, check out a more _lively_ nightlife.”

 

Pidge looked off to the side, almost as if she was considering it, before saying, “I don't have time to mess around with you guys” while simultaneously peddling away.

 

“What's her problem?” Lance said, watching her as she grew more and more distant. He turned to look back and forth between Shiro and Hunk, asking, “Was it the picking up ladies thing? I thought Pidge was a lesbian.”

 

“Lance,” Shiro said, “First off, you can't just assume a person's gay.”

 

Lance put his hands on his hips like he did when he wanted to imitate, what he liked to call, his mom's ' _you're gonna learn today_ ' stance. His sister use to tell him he looked like a little kid pretending to be a superhero when he did that.

 

“Funny, seeing how everyone is usually assumed straight until proven otherwise.”

 

Shiro opened his mouth, closed it, sighed and-

 

“Really? I always thought Pidge was asexual,” Hunk said.

 

“Hunk, my man, you can be asexual and a lesbian. You're thinking of aromantic.” When Hunk blinked at him, not unlike an owl or a confused puppy, Lance said, “What? I know things. I'm woke. I have a Tumblr.”

 

“Guys,” Shiro said, the inflection of which gained both Lance's and Hunk’s immediate attention. “While I appreciate that you're both mature enough to have a conversation about the intricacies of human attraction, my point is, you shouldn't assume anyone's sexuality. Also…” He looked at Lance directly. “Try not to take it personally. Pidge doesn't mean to come off as indifferent. She’s just… busy.”

 

As a rule, Lance was a compassionate person. His mom always reminded him that being understanding was important, always told him that we never knew what anyone else was actually going through, but right then, he didn't really care. He felt a little too petty, a little too homesick. So he scoffed and rolled his eyes, saying, “Yeah, and you know me, as free as a bird.” He’d probably regret it later.

 

Before he could see whatever flavor of disappointment Shiro's face had in store for him, Lance placed his board on the road beside Hunk with one foot off and one foot on. “What about you, buddy? Wanna go paint the town red?”

 

“No can do. Gotta help my mom's tomorrow, but you should come to dinner sometime soon.” Hunk leaned in with a mischievous grin. “Their dying to meet the Slayer. Can't stop talking about it.”

 

Lance had to physically fight to keep his smile from falling at that, only making it bigger and hopefully not too awkward as a result. The feeling sorta reminded him of the time he told his fifth grade formal date, Jenny Schneider, that he wasn't a kiss-virgin despite totally being a kiss-virgin and knowing she'd want to smooch at the end of the night. He had practiced on a pillow, avoided any smelly food, layered on chapstick, and yet still some how ended up knocking his head into hers when he leaned in for what should've been the loss of his kiss-virginity.

 

“Ha, yeah man, depending on how good the food is, I may even hand out some autographs,” he said, snapping two finger guns Hunks way.

 

Hunk chuckled and shook his head in an endeared sorta exasperation like his older brother Marco would sometimes do.

 

“Than you better get your John Hancock ready because they make a mean stew.”

 

“Lance, you're going to be late,” Shiro said from somewhere behind him.

 

Lance's eyes widened as he fumbled for his phone to look at the time only to see two missed calls. “Crud-sicle, mama's goin' kill me.”

 

Without even looking their way, Lance shouted out some quick goodbyes as he pushed off the ground and propelled himself forward.

 

Once he gained enough speed, Lance balanced himself on the skateboard. There was a slight wind that he fought to not teeter against, paired with a fresh, almost sweet scent, pungent to the point of overwhelming. It was going to rain, and for the first time since he moved to this town - if you could call it that - Lance was glad he lived near a cemetery.

 

Then again, nothing was too far off from the cemetery, not with how small Arus actually was. Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was just that everything seemed small when compared to San Francisco. To him, nowhere in the world was bigger.

 

Not for the first time, Lance found himself asking why him. Or more accurately, why only him? If what Shiro said was correct, there were hundred of potential slayers at any given time. Comparably, there were thousands of vampires roaming the Americas alone. So why just one? Or if there was only one, why not someone who lived in a bigger city with more vamps to kill, not in bumfuck Arus, known only as the home of the biggest cheese wheel ever made.

 

The closest thing to an answer Lance got was when Shiro said that every slayer had a destiny. Which, if you asked Lance, the only destiny slayers seemed to share was a penchant for premature death.

 

It was a morbid thought, more morbid than Lance typically liked to let his mind linger towards, but it was also sorta inevitable considering he was the designated death dealer to all local ghouls and goblins. Even more so after what happened to his sister and the _incident_ that prompted him, his mom, and his niece to load up their rickety Volkswagen Derby and make the four hour trip from bustling San Francisco to desolate Arus on nothing but Air Supply cassettes, Taki's Tortilla chips and lukewarm cans of San Pellegrino.

 

The _incident_ made Lance consider that it didn't matter where he was, that his awakening sent pheromones wafting through the whole continent, causing the great vamp migration of 2018 - as he liked to call it. Shiro also shot down this theory, once again giving credit to destiny, saying that it lead every slayer to their own personal incident one way or another. Although he did admit that Lance’s awakening was particularly theatrical.

 

That was Lance for you though. He practically razzle dazzled out of the womb doing jazz fingers. From cradle to vamp infested crypt, Lance had always thrived on dramatics.

 

He could only imagine what his sister would say if she were still around to know about all of this. ‘ _Really Lance, the Slayer? You already act as if the world revolves around you, now you have to monopolize the supernatural realm too?_ ”

 

The thought made him chuckle. It was all sibling banter. Nothing serious. In fact, within their large family, Lance was use to deferring to the others around him. Maybe that's why he typically sought out the spotlight he had never gotten at home, wanting to know what it felt like to not be just apart of something, but integral to it. Well now he knew. The universe had not been subtle when it sent a pack of feisty vampires to deliver a scream-o-gram right to his front door. ‘ _Surprise! You're special. Now don't die._ ’

 

Well he didn't, nor did he plan to anytime soon. He didn't prove the universe wrong that day, and if it was up to him, he never would. Lance was going to be the best slayer to ever slay damn It!

 

… And maybe he'd somehow manage to pass his Precalc class while he was at it.

 

Lance dragged his foot across the asphalt as he almost skated past his house. The constant gravely spin of his wheels had lulled him into aimless thought. If Shiro were here, he'd reprimand Lance for not being more mindful of his surrounding, lecture him about the importance of honing his senses, which would lead Lance to argue that his senses were as sharp as the stake tucked inside the pocket of his hammy down Levi denim jacket, and that he was totally capable of being mindful when he _wanted_ to be. Lance, however, refused to live the entirety of what could very well be his short life on the proverbial edge. That kind of unnecessary stress caused worry lines, thank you very much.

 

Finishing up his hypothetical argument, Lance pressed his foot against the end up his board, making the nose lift seamlessly into his waiting hand. He hoisted it under his arm and jogged up the driveway before opening the door as little and silently as possible. Once he wedged himself inside and settled his skateboard against the coat rack, Lance nudged the door close. He turned around and flinched at the sight of his mom hunched over, jumping on one foot while trying to squeeze the other into a shoe.

 

How did he not hear her? Okay… maybe Shiro had a point about mindfulness.

 

“Leonardo Rosel Alvarez.” His name was said through gritted teeth and might've been intimidating if not for the way his mom kept bouncing, looking more angry at the shoe than she did at him. “You're cutting it close.”

 

Lance snorted, causing his mom to redirect her glare. A fatal mistake, as she lost her balance and went toppling over the arm of their dijon coloured couch.

 

All five feet and three inches of her laid flopped against the love seat, one bare foot dropping lifelessly against an area rug. She stared up at the ceiling unbothered, wearing a resigned look that said she had been bested by a shoe and didn't even care anymore. When Lance reached out a hand to help her up - after a few seconds of solid, breath catching laughter - she flung her arms above her head and made a noise that sounded somewhere between a sigh and a wheeze. “No, you must go on without me. Take care of Penelope. Keep my memory alive, and Lance, always remember… you were my... second favorite son.”

 

Regina Alvarez was amusingly contradictory. She had raised four rowdy children. She could salvage pigtails that had been seemingly ruined by chewing gum. She could fed a platoon’s worth of preteen boys on two bags of pizza rolls, a can of cheese whiz, and a little bit of creativity. She could rally her children into a cohesive unit on cleaning days with the delegation skills of a military general and take care of an entire household of flew riddled Alvarez's with the germ resistance that only a woman who spent half their life tending to the sick could have. In other words, his mother was a certified superhero. However, she would also spend hours laminating the loss DVR recording of the week's newest Project Runway episode while cursing whoever recorded over it, describing a betrayal the likes of which haven't been seen since Judas screwed over Jesus.

 

Bad ass and full of theatrical sass. That was his mom.

 

Lance gasped and splayed a hand against his chest. “And here I was about to throw myself into your cushiony grave with you like a good son should.”

 

Regina pushed herself up on her elbows with a grin that all of his aunt's and uncle's said he inherited straight from her. The devil's harbinger, they called it.

 

“That's why Marco’s my favorite,” she teased, sitting up to find her shoe. “Instead of indulging my antics, he would remind me that I can’t be late for work.”

 

Lance scoffed and rolled his eyes. “That guy? Over me? He has the personality of an overcooked fish fillet,” he joked as he moved through the archway of their living and towards the kitchen in search for whatever smelled so good. He opened up the stove and wiggled his eyebrows at the presence of a freshly made lasagna. After taking it out and sitting it on the counter, he peeled back the foil cover and grabbed a fork out of their cutlery draw.

 

“I'm going to tell Marco you said that when he visits next month,” Regina said.

 

Lance shrugged as he swallowed down an enthusiastic helping of lasagne. “I love the guy, mama, but he's boring. I know it. He knows it. Anyone who's ever had the misfortune of talking to him at a party knows it. Not everyone can be as hilarious and charming as me, it's not a bad-” Just as Lance was about to swoop in for another fork full, it was ripped from his hand. He looked towards his mutinous mother with betrayal in his eyes, pouting as she pulled a bowl down from the overhead cabinet. “What the cheese, mama? I was enjoying that!”

 

“Your brother's not boring, just responsible,” she said instead, pointedly sitting down the bowl and fork on the stove. “I bet he even puts his lasagna on a plate like a proper adult.”

 

“Hey, I'm a proper adult!”

 

“You have a pasta stain on your shirt, Lance.”

 

Lance turned around with a huff and began to aggressively shovel chunks of lasagna into his bowl, taking one single bite straight from the tin just because that was the kind of petty guy he was.

 

Then he sat on the counter eating his food as his mom buzzed around the kitchen. He rolled his eyes. This is why the Alvarez’s had a reputation for being late to everything.

 

It wasn't until she pulled out a spray bottle and a washcloth from under the sink that Lance jumped down and placed a hand on her wrist. “Mama, stop that. You're going to be late. I promise, I'll clean up before I go to bed.”

 

Regina brushed him off. “You should be asleep. You have to wake up early to help Penelope get ready for school.”

 

“I have to stay up and study some more anyway. What's a little light cleaning while I'm at it?” Lance asked, offering an easy smile.  

 

“With all this studying you've been doing, I expect straight As,” she said, and Lance could've laughed. His mom always expected straight A’s, but as she liked to remind him of back when he'd get volunteered into last minute babysitting, having to cancel plans with his (old)friends, we don't always get what we want.

 

Instead of relinquishing her hold on the dish rag, she put more lean into whatever non-existent stain she was attempting to clean, causing Lance to sigh. She got like this sometimes when she didn't want to leave. Hovering. Not that random intermissions of cleaning weren't normal for her, but Lance could tell the difference. He knew that there were days where her every other thought was the worst case scenario. It was his fault. He should've texted her more, updated her on his location as false as it may have been.

 

Decisively, Lance took out a spray bottle that they used to water their indoor aloe plants with and aimed it at his mom. “Regina Alvarez, I'm going to have to ask you to step away from the cleaning supplies.”

 

Regina’s hand stopped mid scrub as she pinned Lance with a challenging glare. “You wouldn't.”

 

“I don't want to ruin your hair mama, but drastic times call for drastic measures.”

 

Matching blue eyes held each other for a few intense seconds, and Lance had the crazy thought that if he could win against his mom in a stare off, than he could go up against Satan himself.

 

Finally, Regina relented with a huff, tossing the dish rag on the counter. The corners of her lips curled and the laugh lines on her face deepened.

 

“Threatening me with a bottle of water,” she said as she retrieved her purse from the ten seater dining room table that they yet to use since they moved here two months ago. “I'll make a mother out of you yet.”

 

Lance escorted her to the front door, all while she reminded him of the same things she reminded him of every night before she left for work. He rolled his eyes but humored her until he all but had to push her out the front door.

 

Standing in the arch way, she paused and turned to Lance. She looked at him the same way she'd look at Luis and his wife whenever their visits from Arizona would come to an end, as if there was never enough time. “We’re always passing each other by. We hardly see one another anymore.”

 

Her words were simple and true, but just as sad, and Lance felt, for a moment, heavy with guilt. But then he looked at the rosary around her neck, the one he bought her after he found out he was the Slayer and just what that plain piece of wood could do. The rosary he bought all of them. He played it off as sentimentality, got her and Penelope to wear them with a little bit of good old catholic guilt, but the truth was, for the first time in Lance’s life, he didn't trust God to watch over his family. That responsible was his own, and that meant sometimes having to pass each other by.

 

Knowing that was, at least, some consultation to the guilt he felt.

 

“Yeah, but it's like you always say, quality over quantity, right?”

 

“I know, it's just…” Regina's eyes flickered down, her unspoken words making it impossible for Lance to hold his already strained smile. It was just Veronica, she wanted to say. It was just that she's already lost a child and she was terrified of losing another.

 

Lance remembered the day cops showed up at their door, told them about Veronica. It was the sorta thing he thought only happened in movies or to soldiers who never made it back from the war. Whitney Houston's _I Wanna Dance With Somebody_ was playing from a record player in the living room. The windows were pushed open, and the whole house smelled like Glade Plug-ins and the pot they sold out of the dispensaries on Vincent Boardwalk. Lance was wearing latex gloves and his raggedy, bleach stained pair of cleaning day jeans. His mom's hair was pushed back with a teal paisley bandana. She was still holding a Swiffer Wet Mop when she opened the door.

 

There was no way for Lance to explain what it was like to process something like that. All he could say was that it was a physical experience. He felt that loss in his body before he even really understood what had been taken away from him. It wasn't until he heard his mom's voice, heavy and concise, say, “Leonardo, take Penelope upstairs,” that he began to understand what was happening.

 

Who would take Penelope upstairs if someone came to the door with news about him?

 

“Hey, on your next day off, let's have a spa day. We can do facials and I'll paint your nails- Qh! and you can vent to me about all your _gringo_ coworkers! It'll be great.”

 

Regina beamed up at him and reached out to cup his cheeks. “I change my mind,” she said, leading Lance down to plant a kiss on his forehead. “You're my favorite son.”

 

“I bet you say that to all of us.”

 

“Yes, but I only mean it with you.”

 

Lance chuckled before they exchanged quick goodbyes. He watched through the peephole to make sure she made it to the car safely. Once she had, he backed away from the door and decided to go check on Penelope.

 

**xXx**

 

It was nearly one am before Lance was laying in bed perusing the pages of a leather bound book older than Arus itself was. It was his slayer homework - as Shiro put it. Not to question the expert here, but Lance wasn't sure how a thorough insight on the colloquial of hafling demons was going to be of any practical use for him.

 

“Borrr-inggg,” Lance said with a yawn, pressing that pads of his fingers into the side of each burning eye. “Could this stuff be any dryer? Even Shakespeare was revamped for modern times.” He shifted on his elbows and looked up to the sky. “Seriously, great supernatural forces, whoever you are, haven't you ever heard of knowing your audience?”

 

His complaints were met with nothing but the whooshing of the ceiling fan. “You’d think being the Slayer would get me some direct line to heaven’s receptionist at least, but nooooo, make everything harder for Lancey Lance,” he muttered, resting a cheek against his palm. “Not like I'm protecting the human race or anything for you guys. No biggie.”

 

Lance scanned a new section, the text stating that not only were government fractions aware of the supernatural world, but that they were directly involved in it and have been since the beginning of civilization itself. “Okayyyy,” Lance said, pinching the cover of the book and flipping it shut. “And that's where I stop. This is getting a little bit too Ancient Aliens, tin foil hat-ish, even for me.”

 

He sat himself up and hoisted the book between his legs and under the bed. Behind him, the door creaked, and it was all Lance could do to stop himself from reaching for the stake in his backpack.

 

“Uncle Lancey Lance.”

 

He twisted to see his niece, Penelope, shifting from barefoot to barefoot in the doorway, tugging on the hem of her Moana night shirt.

 

“Penny, shouldn't you be in bed? You have school in the morning.”

 

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit of hers. It didn't stay though. The ringlet curls were much too unruly.

 

 _Like her mom's_ , Lance thought.

 

Penelope’s brow furrowed and she jutted out her lip.

 

“Yeah, well so do you.”

 

Lance chuckled. _Smart kid._

 

“You got me there. I'll tell you what, if you don't tell mama on me, I won't tell her on you.”

 

Penelope pursed her grinning lips before miming out the turning and disposal of a key. When she looked towards the bed and shifted in her spot - as if asking permission - Lance sat against the headboard with outstretched legs and patted the spot beside him. “Come tell Tio Lancey Lance what's wrong.”

 

She all but pounced onto the bed, squirming until she got comfortable. When she finally did, she looked up at Lance and asked, “Tio means uncle in Spanish, right?”

 

“Si.”

 

“And mama spoke Spanish, too, right?”

 

“She sure did. A total natural. Mamma said she was fluent by the time she was your age.”

 

“Could you… Would you teach me? I'd ask Grandma Regina, but she's so busy lately.”

 

Lance beamed. “Heck yeah, I will! I'll be the best Spanish teacher a girl could ask for.” He straighten up and cleared his throat. “Fist lesson, call mama abuelita.” Grinning wickedly, he added, “You'll have her eating out of the palm of your hands.”

 

Penelope parroted the word, one, two, three times before getting it right. “See! You're a natural, just like your mama!” He said, giving the girl a high five.

 

“Thanks… tio.”

 

“Anytime…” He side eyed the girl, taking note of the tiny frown on her face. “Does wanting to learn Spanish have anything to do with why you can't sleep?”

 

Penelope casted her eyes downwards to her lap and shrugged. “I miss mama.”

 

Lance’s lips curled in a grim sorta understanding. “I know, I do too… Do you wanna talk about it?”

 

“Not really. It just- it makes me sad. I don't like being sad.”

 

“You know it's okay to be sad, don't you?”

 

”...But,” Her face contorted, as if she was trying to reconcile something. “Abuelita said that I should try to be happy. That when I'm happy, it makes mama's soul happy.”

 

That… actually did sound like something his mom would say. It wasn't bad advice or even wrong advice, not really, but maybe unfair or incomplete. As a single mother, Veronica had been the embodiment of independence, passing that down to Penelope in the way some moms pass down dresses or dolls. Even when Penny was learning to walk, Veronica had always been adamant about letting her pick herself back up whenever she would fall. It had stuck, but now in all the wrong ways. You could see it in the way Penelope grieved, and maybe it was because Lance lost his dad when he was around her age, but he had never liked how "adjusted" she seemed to it all. She was eight and this was her first experience with death. There was so much about what she felt that she wouldn't understand until hindsight. That was why a part of Lance wanted unprompted anger and calls from her school, because at least then he would know she was working through emotions she didn't understand instead of ignoring them.

 

“I want you to make me a promise, Penny,” Lance said, prompting her to tuck her chin firmly into his bicep and look up to him with brown, almost witch hazel color eyes. “If you're feeling sad, I want you to come talk to me or mama about it, okay? Because that's how you get to be happy. You gotta let out all the sadness to make room for the good stuff.” Lance held out his pinky. “Deal.”

 

She blinked at the offered finger before returning Lance’s smile. “Deal,” she said, hooking her pinky with him own.

 

“You better not break that, princess. Pinky promises are sacred.”

 

Penelope slowly unfurled her finger, sticking her bottom lip out in an adorable way only an eight year old could get away with. “I'm not a princess.”

 

“What's wrong with being a princess? They're  smart and graceful, they're leaders and soldiers, and they take care of the people in their land. Pluseeee~ they get to live in a pretty awesome castle.”

 

Penelope crossed her arms against her chest and scrunched her nose. She had always been naturally argumentative. “Name one princess who's actually like that.”

 

“Hmm.” Lance rubbed at his chin in mock consideration before widening his eyes and snapping his fingers. “Princess Allura from Voltron.”

 

“She's not even a real person!” Penelope tutted. “Besides, Voltrons a cartoon and cartoons are for babies.”

 

Lance shrugged as he leaned over to pull his laptop out of his backpack, a nonchalant smirk on his face. “Then I guess you don't want to stay up with me and watch reruns until we fall asleep.”

 

“Oh, well, I mean.” She twiddled with the pink fabric of her shirt before letting out a relinquishing huff. “If you want to watch it, I guess I can stay up too.”

 

Lance chuckled as he slid the laptop open. Penelope leaded against his side, her eyelids already dipping lower. “Who's your favorite?” she asked as Lance typed Netflix into his his search engine and scrolled to his recently viewed shows. “You probably just like the princess because she’s pretty.”

 

“Hey! I’ll have you know that Tio Lancey Lance is a man of complex taste. It takes more than a pretty face to win this stud over.” He mock wiggled his brows at Penelope who retaliated with a stuck out tongue and a gagging noise. He flicked the girl in the temple with a tiny laugh, saying, “And It's hard to pick one. They're all really cool in their own ways, ya know?

 

Penelope made a thoughtful sound, the tail end of which was drowned out by the opening credits.

 

“What about you?” Lance asked, seeing her eyes were already fluttering shut. “Who's your favorite?”

 

“I like the red one.”

 

“Oh yeah? Why's that?”

 

“He’s got cool fire power's and eyes like plums. I like plums,” she muttered with perfect eight year old logic. “Pulse.. he's an orphan. Like me.”

 

Lance’s watched as her eyes shut and her breathing slowed. His eyes drew to where the rosary rose and fell against her chest. It was a helpless feeling, knowing that no matter how much power he accumulated, there was some pain too intangible to slay, somethings too out of reach to protect.

 

Lance didn't want to be another lose to Penelope and his mom. He knew what it would do to them, but he also knew that dying in a familiar room surrounded by loving faces wasn't a luxury past slayers got, and if destiny was really at the helm, it seemed impossible for his story of be any different.

 

But two months ago, if you told Lance, gangly, off beat, mamas boy Lance that he was suppose to be the Slayer, fighting against the stuff of campfire stories and ghost tales, he would have told you that was impossible too. So screw destiny. He would slay for the world, but he would live for his family.

 

**xXx**

 

_A knotted face and fanged smile._

 

_Dagger sharp breaths. Dusty air. Morgue cold._

 

_Galloping heart. Scream punched throat._

 

_Looming silhouettes. Concrete and terror._

 

_Help me._

 

 _Help me_.

 

**_Help me._ **

 

**xXx**

 

Lance shot up, his computer still open on his lap. He sucked in a breath, only letting it out when he turned to see Penelope had rolled over at some point in the night to sleep soundly on the other side of the bed.

 

He quickly sat up and planted his feet on the carpet, hoping to ground himself. It didn't work. Instead, his leg began to shake, so much so that he stood and began to pace the space of his room.

 

It had been a long time since he had weird dreams about mysterious shadow men, but those were before he found out he was the Slayer, and this, well this was something else entirely.

 

Every part of him felt pinched and uncomfortable, and the sensation only grew into heart palpitations and repetitive movement. He picked a book off of his desk and flipped it over in his hands, repeating the motion just to have something to _do_ , but it didn't help.

 

It was a strange type of anxious hyperactivity. It was like he was running late for something, an almost dysphoric sense of needing to move but not knowing towards what.

 

This was it. He'd lost it. He had become the Slayer all to die from some stress induced panic attack. Lance Alvarez, eighteen year old arsonist found dead in a pair of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles fleece pyjamas. That would be his legacy.

 

What would his mama sa-

 

‘ _H_ _elp me_ ’

 

Lance halted.

 

‘ _Help me_.’

 

‘ _Help me_!’

 

That was it!

 

Memories of fear not his own appeared from his panic, with them coming a sense of orientation. A goal. A destination.

 

But first…

 

Lance fished his phone from it's charger.

 

He needed to call someone.

 

**xXx**

 

Lance was standing ready at the door when he heard the knock. In one rushed motion, he flung it open and jerked the girl inside.

 

Pidge’s wide eyed shock turned into a piercing glare. She looked ready to tell him just how many ways he could go fuck himself, but Lance, while he agreed that waking anyone up before six o'clock was an offense punishable by death, didn't have time for Pidges wrath.

 

Or more accurately, the person in his dream didn't have it.

 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Lance exclaimed, grabbing Pidge’s wrist and pulling her towards his bedroom.

 

“Keep your gratitude. What I want is for you to bring me coffee in the morning.” She said with a grunt, swerving to miss the edge of a dresser as they nearly sprinted down the hall. “Grinders. None of that Starbucks crap.”

 

Once In his room, Pidge dropped her bag with a thump. Lance looked over to Penelope. Good, still sleeping soundly.

 

Pidge stooped down to one knee and dug a small container from the top compartment of her backpack.

 

Lance snorted. “Did the the local coven host a Tupperware party I wasn't invited to?”

 

Pidge’s hand stilled on the lid before she tilted her head to glare at Lance. “You wake me up at two in the morning to cast over some strange dream that may or may not mean anything. This is what you get. Not pretty, but effective.”

 

“Right,” Lance said as Pidge opened the plastic covering and sat it on the side of the bed opposite of Penelope. He looked at the girl again, her tiny hands curled into her chest protectively. Something about that made his throat swell. “S-she'll be alright, yeah? No weird side effects, no waking up with a third eye or anything crazy like that?”

 

“It's a low level sleeping spell.” She rolled her eyes. “Even you could do it.”

 

“Yeah- wait. Hey- You know what, nevermind. Just remind me to be offended later.” Pidge paid him little mind as she began a series of hand gestures. Lance snorted again. “Naruto,” he muttered under his breath.

 

“Seriously Lance?!”

 

“Sorry! I babble when I'm nervous.”

 

A turmeric coloured powder began to rise from its container, glowing as it floated it's way over to Penelope. It orbited her head before sprinkling itself over her face, dispersing once it hit the skin.

 

“That should keep her asleep for two more hours.”

 

Lance gave her one more lingering look before adjusting the straps of his backpack and turning towards the door. “Don't worry, I'll  be back in time.”

 

He was out of his room, barely noticing Pidge following him until she said, “You better. That would be one _awkward_ conversation to have with your mom.”

 

Lance stood at the front door, one hand holding his skateboard, the other stilled on the knob. “Thanks again, Pidge,” he said, smiling over his shoulder. “You're the only one I trust to look after Penelope if something were to come up.”

 

Pidge perked her brow. “Why me?”

 

“You come from a family of powerful witches. You're probably the closest I'll ever get to meeting a real life Dumbledore, even if you are missing the cool beard.”

 

She paused for a breath, the corner of her lips twitching. “I'll give you a thorough power point presentation on the magical inaccuracy of those books later.” She tutted. “Go.”

 

“Right,” Lance said, opening the door and all but jumping down onto the sidewalk. With one foot on his board, he looked back to the young mage. “Oh, and Pidge, call Shiro. I'll probably need back up.”

 

Pidge nodded curtly, but as Lance skated away, she blurted, “Have fun storming the castle.”

 

Lance didn't stop, just chuckled at the memory of them arguing over which movie was better, Princess Bride or Monty Python. “As you wish,” he shouted back, pushing harder against the sidewalk.

 

Lance looked at his watch. Two forty three. It had only been five minutes since Pidge walked into his house and thirty since he called her, but Lance still felt his chest ache with guilt. What if he was late? He couldn't bring himself to leave Penelope until Pidge casted the spell, but what if that was the wrong decision. What if he cost someone their  life?

 

**xXx**

 

Lance had never been one for intuition. Not that he didn't have any, just that he didn't like falling back on an unfounded feeling. Meaning if he didn’t trust somebody, it was probably because they did something to deserve it. If he got creepy vibes while walking down an ally, it was probably because if late night crime documentaries taught him anything, it was that murder rates were exponentially higher in the sliver of space that exist between a run now pizza joint and a dance club. If he had a bad dream, he just assumed it was from eating too much spicy food late at night.

 

However, inside of every potential slayer was a mystical membrane, filled with spores that dilated if and when you were chosen, sucking in all other worldly energy. At least - that's how Shiro had put it. So as Lance discarded his skateboard and backpack at the cemetery gates, he thought that maybe this wasn't some wildly exaggerated stress dream, or the consequences of eating too much lasagne  before bed, but instead, a perception. A set senses that most people didn't have.

 

All he knew for sure was that there wasn't a single part of him that considered the option of not finding someone in trouble here.

 

He tucked away several weapons on various parts of his person, quickly constructed his bow, and armed himself with plenty of arrows. With his cross bow down and to the side, he trudged through the rain mushed grown, absorbing his surroundings as he moved at a brisk pace.

 

There were five mausoleum in all, and Lance mentally mapped a path that would allow him to hit each one as quickly as possible. He moved, trying not to second guess his decisions. Easier said than done.

 

The first mausoleum he came to had no windows, but the door was ever so slightly opened. He crouched down by the entrance and listened.

 

Nothing.

 

He moved on to the second.

 

Upon approach, he saw that there was a shattered stained glass window, half the face of Mother Mary remaining. Lance scolded the vandalism mentally while pinching the rosary  between the fingers of his right hand and tracing a cross over his chest.

 

He squatted beneath the window sill and peaked inside to see four vampires and two teenage girls that he vaguely recognized from his high school. More than likely he tried to hit on at least one or both of them at some time or another. It was hard to keep up with every pretty face he made a pass at. Point being, Lance knew these girls, if even on a basic level, and something about that made this all the more important, his decisions all the more impactful.

 

One of the girls was knocked out completely and the other whimpered beside her, tugging at her skirt and squirming against the wall as if she could disappear into the concrete. The vampires didn't seem to pay her no mind though, instead talking unrushed, circled around a tomb in the middle of the mausoleum.

 

“She should awake soon,” one of the vampires said. “Do we begin the transition on the other?”

 

“If we are, than I call dibs,” another said. “You didn't even share any of her friend.”

 

“I didn't want you to ruin the taste,” a female voice reasoned.

 

A part of Lance, the logical part, wanted to wait for Shiro, but a more in the present part of him realized that while he would be fine holding off, that didn't mean the vampires would be. By the time Shiro came, there might be nothing left but a mess to clean up.

 

Lance bit his lip, his brows pinching to the point that the skin of his forehead wrinkled. He needed to buy time. That was it. Banking on Shiro’s appearance might not have been the best plan, but Lance couldn’t help to trust him and Pidge both. He was the Slayer, which, apparently was a big deal if what everyone had been saying was true, and Shiro’s one job was to make sure Lance had everything he needed no to die, something Shiro had been adamant that he didn’t have yet.

 

Yeah, with Shiro, four vamps would be easy peasy, but the issue was what to do before Shiro got here. How did he buy time without getting himself or those girls hurt? What weapon should he use? Could he play defense with these guys? For how long? What if he couldn’t do it-

 

“Alright Damon,” the female voice said again, “You and Topher can do the draining, but mind your fangs. We want her to survive this.”

 

“Right, right, anything to get on the Demon King's A-list, yeah.”  

 

Welp, there wasn’t time to analyze whatever that meant, and certainly no time for all this negative nancy nonsense. That was future Lance’s problem.

 

Before he even registered that he had formed a plan, Lance was reaching into the pocket of his jacket where he pulled out one of Hunk’s magical weapons. It looked like regular pinball- sans the metal band around the center. Inconspicuous and palm sized, it released ground tremors on impact, but in a way that only supernatural beings could feel. Lance didn’t really understand the mechanics behind it, just that it could offer a distraction without garnishing the attention of regular ol’ human folk. Just what he needed.

 

He thumbed the band twice to the left before hooking it at the end of his arrowhead. With a pointed breath, he pulled back his bow, and aiming as far off as possible, released.

 

Lance stared unblinking in the direction of the arrow, only allowing himself to move once he felt the ground shake beneath him.

 

“Damn California fault lines,” one of the vampires shouted. He wasn't wrong. It felt similar to any other earthquake common for the area, but hopefully different enough to earn their attention.

 

“That wasn't an earthquake,” the female said, her words slow and skeptical. “It ended too soon. Much too isolated. Damon, go do a perimeter check. We can't have anyone interrupting us once the process is started.”

 

There were no words, just the hoisting of metal doors and the sound of frantic sprinting towards the entrance of the cemetery.

 

Lance thought, naively so, that he did all he'd have to until Shiro got here. This Damon guy was supposed to do the draining, after all. Can't do that while he was off playing grounds keeper, but-

 

“If Damon's going to be busy for a while, just let me and Topher do the draining.”

 

There was a pause, and then: “You ate yesterday, Sean. It's been several for Damon.”

 

“So we'll go grab him some takeout after this,” Sean said. “Maybe some Mexican.”

 

“Or some Chinese,” Topher added with a small chuckle.

 

For a moment, the image of four vampires passing around white take out containers as they clumsily attempted to spool Lo Main around a pair of chopsticks entered his brain. They'd fight over the last Crab Rangoon and take turns reading their fortune cookies just like Lance and his old friends did back before the fire. It was a funny thought, that was until he remembered that their food wasn't something you could eat during homework or in between rounds of a video game. It didn't come in tiny boxes or with hidden messages tucked inside of stale cookies. They were talking about people.

 

“Fine,” the woman relented. “I did just sire. I suppose I can indulge you.”

 

Sire. Lance knew that word. But- That couldn't be right. Shiro said vampires didn't do that anymore. It was rare, unnecessary, and dangerous. Why make more predators and have to share you're already limited prey? Only, she just said- she just did-  and they were going to do it again. They- To this girl-

 

“ _In every generation, there is a Chosen One,_ Shiro had said. _“They alone will stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness, to stop the spread of their evil and the swell of their numbers. This is the Slayer. You are the Slayer, Lance.”_

 

Lance pushed himself up, felt his thighs burn from the effort. The ivy covered concrete of the wall was grounding. He took a breath, slow and silent. Lance was the Slayer.

 

The girl inside yelped, screamed pleas echoing incoherent around him.

 

Lance was the Slayer. There was nothing else to consider.

 

**xXx**

 

_“Lance. That's enough messing around.”_

 

_Lance moaned into the blue exercise mat Shiro had just flipped him onto. He could practically hear the Watcher pinching the bridge of his nose. If it wasn't for the sour stench of sweat and vinyl right against his face, Lance might've been compelled to play dead in an attempt to avoid the expression of disappointment that was undoubtedly looming above him._

 

_The need for oxygen won out over pride, causing Lance to flip over. He lifted himself onto his elbows and craned his neck to see Shiro standing by the edge of the mat, regarding him with downward sloping lips and crossed arms._

 

_Lance smirked. “What do you mean messing around? Didn't you see me? I almost had you there.”_

 

_“Really? Because all I saw was a hell of a lot of braggadocio and very little concentration.”_

 

_Something coiled in Lance’s gut. Sorta like a cyst, compacted and probably benign, but a little too close to the surface for Lance's liking._

 

_He sat up and tried to figure out something to say that wasn't completely petulant, but all he could come up with was a shameful frown. He wasn't that bad, was he? He had been trying._

 

_Shiro walked onto the mat and squatted down to Lance's level. It was a gesture he pulled often with Penelope. It was supposed to be comforting, closing the distance between you and another person, but all it accomplished was making Lance uncomfortably aware of how far Shiro had to lower himself just to see from Lance's vantage point. He was the Slayer. After a month of training, Shiro shouldn't be able to take him down, not with Lance's superior strength. What if he had been a vampire? What if someone else's life depended on abilities Lance just wasn't developing? What if-_

 

_“You're more talented than you give yourself credit for, you know.”_

 

_Lance tilted his head towards Shiro. He was giving him one of those looks that only older people do. Ones that said they had lived through broken hearts and sleepless nights and had learned lessons you just hadn't yet. Again, it was supposed to be comforting._

 

_“I thought the problem was that I give myself too much credit,” Lance said._

 

_Shiro chuckled, the warm and nostalgic kind. “I know what it's like, Lance, to be a normal kid one minute and then to have the whole world expecting greatness from you the next. Depending on that greatness.”_

 

_The Watcher stood and extended a hand, and well,  Lance took it, because Shiro was his mentor. He was suppose to pull him up. He was suppose to be better than him. So why did that bother Lance so much?_

 

_“Layering on bravado can make it seem as if no one can see how incapable you feel, but really it only keeps you from fulfilling your full potential.”_

 

_The way Shiro spoke, Lance could tell it was from experience, but he still had a hard time imagining him as any less than he was now. Everyone grew though. It was easy to forget that sometimes, forget that no one started from the top of their threshold._

 

_Only that didn't make him feel better, because some people reached their threshold quicker than others. Because Lance was moving too slow, crawling his way into a series of stumbling baby steps. Because Lance had always been a patient person, but the consequences of lagging behind this time were greater than even Lance thought Shiro would understand. Because-_

 

_“How do you know I haven't already fulfilled my potential? That this isn't as good as I get?”_

 

_He hoped he sounded defensive, antagonistic, but looking at Shiro’s face, he knew he failed. He knew he sounded every bit of eighteen years old and terrified that he actually was._

 

 _“Lance, that's… just not how being the Slayer works_.”

 

_It wasn't what Lance wanted to hear. It was too easy of an answer, but he guessed the truth was like that sometimes. Simple and unsatisfying._

 

_Shiro handed Lance a bottle from a nearby window seal, watched thoughtfully as Lance swished the water around his mouth. “When your powers were awoken,” he finally said, “:you were able to fight off a hoard of vampires using nothing but instincts and adaptability. It was impressive.” He smiled wryly. “So much so that I probably would've thought you were exaggerating if I hadn't of read the report myself.”_

 

_Lance let out a high pitch sound that he wasn't exactly proud of, something in between darkly amused and hysterical. “I was terrified!”_

 

_“Exactly. All that mattered was surviving. Lance, I won't ask you not to let all of this get to you. That's unreasonable and frankly unfair, but when you're training, or when you're in the field, you can't bring that sorta thinking with you.”_

 

_Lance leaned against the window and fiddled with the pop top of his bottle. Finally, he found himself able to tilt his head and look at Shiro more directly. He didn't have time for baby steps, but if they were all he had..._

 

_“The consequences of failure stay the same no matter if you think about them or not, but I promise that you are much less likely to succeed if you spend more time dwelling on them than taking in what's actually happening right in front of you.”_

 

_Shiro nodded his head towards the other side of the room as if to say follow me. Lance sat the water bottle back down and allowed himself to be lead towards the middle of the exercise mat. When Shiro took up a fighting stance, Lance hesitantly followed him in that too._

 

 _“I want you to close your eyes and inhale. Clear your mind of anything but what's happening in this moment. Then execute on the exhale.” When Lance nodded, swallowing down any dumb, unearned show of cockiness, Shiro said, “There isn't a slayer_ in _you. You are_ The _Slayer. Don't stand in the way of yourself, Lance.”_

 

_In the dark, he could experience the full sensation of breath. It was like drinking cold water, the sensation of it trailed through every part of him. He focused on that sole feeling and then released it as hot air through his lips. Leaving him with only instinct and effortless motion. When he opened his eyes, Shiro was laying flat out against the exercise mat, grinning bigger than Lance had ever seen him do before._

 

**xXx**

 

A well trained, experienced Slayer could go against a dean of vampires by themselves.

 

A Slayer had superhuman strength, durability, stamina, reflexes, and regeneration powers. A well trained Slayer was almost unstoppable.

 

Lance wasn't a well trained Slayer.

 

Hence why Lance’s cheek was shoved against the burning cold of the mausoleum floor where he was disarmed and trapped, trying to ignore the tiny little popping sounds his joints made under the push of the vampires body.

 

He had been able to injure the leader and give his schoolmate an opening to make a run for it. Well, the one that was still moving. He wasn't even sure the girl slumped against the wall was breathing, and well- He couldn't focus on that. He needed to concentrate not on being great, but just good enough. Just don't die. That was it. Just don't die.

 

She twisted his arm until it was digging in his back. Lance bucked his hips, pressing the palm of his free hand against the ground in hopes to find some leverage.

 

It wasn't working. She had him pinned, but he didn't give up, thrashing and grunting, waiting for some sort of slip in her hold.

 

“You're strong. I actually have to put effort into keeping you restrained.” She hummed in both amusement and curiosity. “Who are you?”

 

Lance closed his eyes. Inhaled. Took a breath to just _feel_ the situation. And-

 

“Oh you know, no one special.” He said, reaching up to his neck and ripping off the beaded chain. “Just the kid who's going to turn you into a big pile of dust.”

 

“Ha, that's mighty-"

 

Lance bent his arm and whipped the rosary blindly at the vampire. He felt it lash against her in the way she gasped and reflexively loosened her grip.

 

If he had time, he might've said something like ‘ _the power of Christ compels you_ ’ or ‘ _how's it feel to be bitch slapped by Jesus_ ’, but as it was, he knocked her off of him, rolling into the motion so that he ended up straddling her and bringing down his stake all at once.

 

She catched his wrist and fought against them. Lance leaned his weight into the downward push of his hands. The stake hovered in between them.

 

“You're strong,” he said through a clenched tooth smirk. "I actually have to put effort into slaying you.”

 

When she returned the strained smirk, there was the voice of Shiro again.

 

_“Never give your back to a vampire.”_

 

He rolled, narrowly avoiding one of her henchman from behind. There was just enough time to see him stumble onto their leader before he jumped up and ducked an incoming fist from the third vampire. He spun and returned the attack, but the vampire deflected the stake with his forearm. Sensing more than seeing another vampire coming from his side, with some quick footwork, Lance twisted, causing the two henchmen to collide.

 

Lance chuckled mutely. He had them wobbling around like newborn does. Some scary forces of evil they were. His amusement, however, was short lived, as he came out of the turn only to land face to face with a pair of bright green eyes and a hand going for his throat. He slid out of the way with a yelp and clutched the woman's hair by the roots, slamming her head into the top of the cement tomb. As he aimed for her heart, he was bodied by one of the henchmen into a wall. They grappled over the stake but Lance was able to lift a leg between them and kick the vampire in the chest. When he stumbled, Lance lunged, stabbing him right through the heart.

 

The vampire denigrated. Everything but his pulse stilled. He twisted to see the other two vampires standing to either side of him, fanged scowls dripping with malice as they looked between him and where their teammate once stood.

 

“Did you see that?! That was awesome!” Lance punched the air before giving a mock salute. “Hasta La Later blood sucker, you were just dusted by Lance Alvarez.” He jumped into a offensive stance, grinning wildly at the others. Relief made him feel giddy. Adrenalin made him careless. “Who's next?”

 

“What about her?”

 

Lance tensed at the sound of a gruff voice mixed with a teary yelp. The vampire he'd distracted with his crossbow stood in the entrance with a fist full of his schoolmates hair. She wormed around on her knees as he yanked her up, futility trying to shove at his hands out of panic or sheer stubbornness or maybe both.

 

The vampire brought his portly hand down to grip the nape of her neck. With an shift of his eyes, Lance looked between her and the other vampires. They watched him with an intent amusement, as if to say karma's a bitch. And okay, maybe Lance got a bit too big for his stake for a moment, but there was no way he was letting it end here. Destiny didn't pick him so he could be killed by an Ill dressed pack of glorified mosquitoes. Screw that. No one was dying here tonight.

 

Well, the vampires we're, he guessed, but they were already dead. So Lance preferred the term cremated.

 

“Woe there big ugly,” Lance said, holding his arms out and slowly kneeling down. He stared unwaveringly at the hand around his schoolmates neck, watched for the slightest tensing of the vampires thickset knuckles. As he felt his fingers brush against the cold floor, he dropped the stake. The girls slender neck only seemed to tighten more under the vampires clutch at his surrender, as if to say it was a bad move. She didn't trust him. Fair. He didn't trust himself much right now either. “No need to go all Hulk on me.”

 

Lance lifted himself back up as gradually as he went down. The vampire snorted, his shoulders rising with the motion. “That's the problem with humans. They can't see the bigger picture.”

 

The leader made that humming noise that Lance thought was probably the closest to a laugh she could vocalize. As if she lost the skill in the way a person might lose a language after years of being forbidden to speak it. That was just another way vampires we're _almost_ human. The sounds they made.

 

“He's right, my pet-" And really, pet? Nineteenth century London called, they want their predatory slang back. “You could've, maybe, made it out of here alive, but humans just can't help themselves. They don't want to be the reason for another's blood on their hands. Not out of compassion, but out of cowardice.”

 

Lance could've argued that maybe when a human had no time to think, only acting off their deepest of instincts, they valued their humanity over their own lives. But well, Lance wasn't about to argue moral philosophy with a fucking vampire of all things. Just an accumulation of animated dust and survival mechanisms. Whatever part of them that might've understood was stolen a long time ago, and honestly, Lance pitied them.

 

Slaying vampires is a show of mercy, Shiro had said. A final respect to the person they once were.

 

Lance took inventory of what he knew.

 

One, the ritual these vampires we're doing on his schoolmate meant they needed her alive. Two, Shiro was on his way. Even if Pidge and him weren't that close, she'd pull whatever the real life version of an _E_ _xpecto Patronum_ was to get Shiro here if need be. Three, arrogance could make you lazy, and if the patronizingly relaxed postures of the three blood suck-e-teers meant anything, they were certainly feeling their upper hand a little too much.

 

He could do this. Just don't die.

 

Luckily, he wasn't alone. He curled his fingers into his hand and taped a pattern on the fat of his palm, something like magical morse code. From a wrap around his forearm, a knife was ejected. He gripped the blade before it could show itself, causing the edge to rub against his skin. It was a surprisingly mild discomfort compared to the fear of failure that was suddenly overwhelming him. He had one chance at this, and even though he knew what Shiro had said about dwelling on consequences, it was hard to focus on his advice over the stringendo of his heart beat.

 

Close his eyes. Inhale. Open. Aim and-

 

The knife cut through the air and right into the chest of the vampire guarding the entrance. No one spoke as they waited for dust that never came. The vampire removed his hand from the girls neck and she fell onto all fours, heaving. He flicked the handle of the knife, watched it bounce with a wide spread grin.

 

He looked up from the knife to wink at Lance. “Good aim, sweetheart, but it would seem you don't have the length to make it count.”

 

There were so many snarky remarks of disgust he wanted to make, but the need to get to him before he got back to her took priority. Save the day now, smack talk later.

 

The leader was now sitting criss-crossed on the tomb, watching them like this was some sort of Spartan gladiator fight. The third henchman stood between Lance and the big guy, who was surprisingly not using his asphyxiating schoolmate as a shield anymore.

 

Why were they being so nonchalant about this? Lance _did_ almost kill him. Give a guy some respect.

 

“New plan,” the woman said. “We’ll sire him, and when he wakes up, we’ll feed him the girl. He’s much stronger than her… almost... inhumanly so.”

 

The vampire in front of him, short and growling, not unlike his Aunt Fiano's pet Yorkie, stalked towards him. But Lance wouldn't let himself be intimidated. He'd charge mister ankle biter here, use his evasion skills and flexibility to twist out of his trajectory at the last possible moment then jump kick the knife right into that pervy vamps unbeating heart. If these guys wanted to underestimate him, fine, but he wasn't going to underestimate them, and that's why he would win.

 

Only, right as he went to execute, his schoolmate had managed to stand up, and with the swiftness of a trained soldier, she gripped the handle of his throwing knife, leaned her whole body into the vampire, pressed the flat of her palm against the butt and pushed, driving him into the wall and the blade into his heart.

 

She glared daggers up at him as he gasped helplessly. “He's not your sweetheart. He's the Slayer. Have some respect.”

 

Maybe Lance had become desentized to plot twists, because the girls words barely registered as he pulled a stake from beneath his waistband and plunged it into the now distracted vampire who only had the time lift an arm in opposition before he was turning into dust. Lances arm extended from a forward diagonal strike into a high block as he spun on the heel of his foot, moving effortlessly to anticipate an attack at his six. He pulled back when he saw no one there, whipping his head around to see the last vampire - their leader - rush past his schoolmate and escaping into the cemetery .

 

Lance cupped his mouth and tilted forward on his tiptoes. “Yeah, you better run away!”

 

“Are you not going to go after her?” the girl asked, pushing herself up from the iron gates.

 

Lance shook his head as he darted over to the unconscious girl laying in the corner of the mausoleum, face veiled by sweat matted brown hair. “We need to get your friend some help,” Lance said, kneeling on one knee in front of her.

 

“She's dead.”

 

Lance just barely peaked over his shoulder before pressing two fingers against her carotid artery.

 

Nothing.

 

He rolled her over in preparation to perform CPR. He overlapped his hands, pressed them against her sternum, and-

 

“I don't think you're getting it. They drained her of all her blood. She’s dead.”

 

Lance's hands stuttered in their compressions, the girls words made something in him furle and wither like parchment under a flame.

 

She was right, the girl was dead, the irresuscitable kind, but that didn't mean Lance wanted to so easily believe it.

 

After Veronica died, Lance would sometimes find his mom praying to Our Lady, and almost always in a precarious position. Sitting at the kitchen table with a peeler at her side and a bowl of half skinned potatoes to her front. Right after a shift, stopped in front of Penelope’s door on the way to her room. ‘ _I'm praying for your sisters soul’,_ she would say, right before joking that she was one of those “bad Catholics”, the kind that only prayed when it benefited her.

 

It wasn't strange. Lance grew up Catholic, after all, a religion that dedicated a whole month to specifically praying for the souls in purgatory, but his mom was right. They had never been strict in their practices. They barely went to mass. Lance didn't know any of the official prayers. Hell, after learning that he was the Slayer and that there were whole layers upon layers of what would be considered the afterlife, none of which were mentioned in his bible, he wasn't even sure what he believed in anymore.

 

But as he closed his eyes and began to pray, he thought he understood why his mom did so when she did. For the same reason why when an earthquake hit, your first instinct was to hold onto something solid. It felt right. It was grounding and familiar when everything else wasn't, like maybe if he prayed, the guilt and disappoint that he felt wouldn't seem so big.

 

Lance stood, sniffling and squeezing away any tears that attempted to fall from his eyes. He almost jumped when he saw his schoolmate still there, now standing by the tomb looking curious but otherwise unaffected.

 

“You're the Slayer.” It wasn't a question but more like a rite of acceptance, like how you might sound when you find out the guy who's doing your taxes has a neck tattoo and a gauged septum. _‘You don't seem like a Slayer’_ , she was saying.

 

“Yeah…” Lance cleared his throat. _‘Get it together, man.’_ “Are you okay? I mean, that was your friend.”

 

“We weren't friends,” she corrected him quickly. “Just fellow captives.”

 

“Oh, um, sorry-"

 

“Don't apologize. Grouping people together like that is normal,” she said absentmindedly, as if they were standing in their schools cafeteria and not a literal crime scene. “It's the Law of Proximity.”

 

“That's- I wasn't apologizing for t-” Lance paused, eyes catching on the handprint shaped bruise that started from her neck and trailed down to her collar bone. His hand hovered above his own in an act of sympathy.  “You're hurt, we should get you to the hospital.”

 

“I’m fine. My Watcher will take care of it.”

 

“You're- You have a Watcher?”

 

The girl quirked a brow. “All potentials do.”

 

Before Lance had the chance to say anything, a burst of purple light was absorbed into the girls body, causing her to fall unconscious right into him.

 

He hooked his arms around the girl in attempts to keep her upright, looking down at where the top of her head was dropped  against his chest and then towards where the light came from.

 

There in the entrance way was Shiro with a faint smoke emanating from his hands. Lance knew that all humans were capable of performing magic on varying levels and that Watchers were expected to know a rudimentary version of it, but it was still strange seeing it come from Shiro. He just didn't seem like the witchy type.

 

“Shiro! Man am I glad to see you, but next time, if you could maybe come _while_ I'm fighting for my life instead of after, that would be highly appreciated.”

 

There was a lot going on with Shiro's face, like he could've been either relieved or disappointed depending on the way you tilted your head. “I’m sorry Lance, I got here as fast as I could.”

 

“He's sleeps like the dead,” Pidge said through heavy breaths.

 

“Pidge! What are you doing here?! What about Penelope? ...And stop sneaking up on people!”

 

“She'll be fine. She's still under the effects of the sleeping spell. Plus, I casted a Do Me No Harm charm on your house. It makes any one with bad intent unable to enter.” Pidge kept scrunching up her nose and rubbing at her face as she spoke, her mouth moving faster the more she said. “We got that other vampire. The one coming from here. At least I figured she was coming from here. I don't know. Either way, we got her. Man, she was quick. Anyway-" She lifted her arm and flicked her wrist, her hand curving into a sweeping motion.

 

The girl in Lance's arms took on a faint green outline and he felt her being tugged from his arms. Knowing it was the effects of Pidge’s magic, Lance let go, though not without an ample amount of confusion.

 

“Uh, is Pidge okay?” He mocked whispered to Shiro as he watched his schoolmate be lifted into the air.  

 

“She will be,” Shiro explained. “She used battle magic on that vampire. I tried to stop her, but Pidge can cast quicker than I can reprimand her.”

 

“So battle magic is… bad?”

 

“No, it just doesn't fit with Pidges specific type of quintessence.”

 

Quintessence? Lance marked that down in the ever-growing mental notebook of things he’d have to ask about later.

 

“It causes her to become a bit manic and out of control of her magic. Doing small spells like this helps her balance out.”

 

Lance looked over to Shiro who was watching Pidge closely. There was obvious concern there but also a layer of fondness, and Lance would be willing to bet this wasn't the first time something like this has happened.

 

His schoolmate was now levitating out the door of the mausoleum, her body ramrod straight. It reminded Lance of being twelve years old, laying flat against the hardwood of his bedroom. One of his best and longest friends, Oscar, was sitting crisscrossed at his side with two fingers from each hand placed  beneath him. He kept chanting “Light as a feather, stiff as a board”, just like the kids from their school taught them. Lance giggled through the whole thing, which, if you asked Oscar, was why it didn't work. It was a children's game, a make believe levitation spell that was no more dangerous or legitimately magical than the Hasbro ouija boards they sold at toy stores. He wondered what Oscar what say if he saw this.

 

Lance blinked several times and shook his head. Now wasn't the time to be pinning away. It was just all a lot. He had so many questions. Shiro was giving him that I'm sternly disappointed in you look. There was a dead girl hidden behind the tomb that Lance had yet to bring up, and now his classmate was floating in the air like this was some low budget reenactment of the Conjuring or something.

 

“So floating this girl around is like… her version of toe touches, because I gotta admit Shiro, this is a little strange.”

 

“She's taking her outside to heal her and then wipe away her memory of the evening.”

 

“Wipe her memory?!”

 

“It's protocol whenever a civilian engages with any supernatural forces to wipe their memory of the experience.”

 

“Like Men in Black,” Pidge offered from outside of the mausoleum.

 

“Cool, cool,” he said, crossing his arms and tapping one foot against the floor. “Only there just one problem! She's not a civilian, she's a potential!” Lance wanted to ask why she had a Watcher when he didn't have one as a potential. Hell, he hadn't even know he had been a potential. He wanted to ask a lot of things, but in the name of priorities, he decided that those questions could wait till later. “Well, two problems,” Lance said, pointing behind himself. “There's a freshly sired girl from the school laying dead in the corner!”

 

Whatever Shiro thought about the whole potential situation wasn't nearly as pressing considering the way he immediately marched over to the girl and scooped her up. He placed her across the tomb to take her pulse. When he inevitably found nothing, Shiro muttered, “Why?”

 

With her hair now fallen to the side, Lance remembered her more clearly. She sat behind him in his Advanced Placement Calculus class. She would hum a lot and always used glitter pens to write her note with. He wished he could remember her name.

 

“We have to tell her family, Shiro. They have to know.” When no response came, Lance felt something tight and ugly form in his throat. He wanted it out. “You said this didn't happen,” he nearly screamed. “Vampires don't sire anymore. They have to keep a low profile. That's what you said!

 

Shiro's eyes were on the girl, sharp but in an unseeing way. His mouth was taunt and his fingers were curled. Lance could hear the way his knuckles rolled against the concrete lid of the tomb, saw the way his throat moved and had tensed as he swallowed. He was shocked and frustrated, maybe even feeling as guilty as Lance was, and that was enough for Lance to remember that this wasn't actually Shiro's fault. That Shiro was as new to this as Lance was. Sure, he had been trained, but how can you really prepare someone for this?

 

“We’ll figure out a safe way of informing her family,” Shiro said. “As for the siring, I'm hoping that this is just the work of some rogue vampires acting out for the thrill of it.”

 

“And if it's not?”

 

Shiro finally stepped away from the tomb and towards Lance, face steely with determination.

 

“Then we’ll figure it out together.”

 

Lance's felt his arms loosen. His smile was tiny and drained, but there. “Heck yeah, we will.”

 

Shiro's expression, however, didn't soften. If anything, it became harsher, all the lines of his face carved into something somber with disappointment. Lance's shoulders tightened in anticipation.

 

“You did a good job, Lance. You delegated. You called for backup, and whatever happened tonight, you were able to face a pack of vampires and still walk away with your life.”

 

“But…”

 

“But you were reckless,” he said. “You're not ready to fight vampires on your own, and luck can only get you so far.”

 

Lance's arms suddenly felt heavy. He let them dangle by his side as he took the full brunt of Shiro's words. He knew Shiro was right. He knew he wasn't ready. Him not being ready was a deciding factor on how he handled everything that went down here tonight. But still, it felt-

 

“Does this have anything do to with potentials having Watchers?” He asked softly, carefully. “Was I supposed to have one?”

 

Shiro seemed hesitant. He licked his lips and squared his shoulders and out of respect or sincerity or maybe both, he didn't look away from Lance for a second, despite the fact he obviously wanted to.

 

“Yes. The council identifies most potentials and assigns them a Watcher. They spend their lives training for a calling that most likely will never happen for them. However…” His voice softened, and Lance could see the apology in his eyes. “It's not a perfect system. Some potentials fly under our radar… like you… I'm very sorry we didn't find you sooner, Lance. It's entirely unfair to you.”

 

Unfair to Lance? More like unfair to the world. Seriously? What kindve bull shit system was that? The world needed a slayer and the mystical forces that be decide to hand Lance the stake? The most unqualified, unwitting Ill-prepared candidate out there? Potentials spent half their lives training, how could he ever be what they needed him to be?

 

Well, he didn't really have any choice, did he? Lance was just another person in a long line of individuals who did not ask for this, but did it anyway. So Lance would do it anyway. Maybe he wasn't up to par. Maybe he wasn't what the world deserved, but ready or not, here he comes. So you know what-

 

“It doesn't matter if I'm ready. I'm not going to stand by and watch someone get killed while I do nothing. That's what it means to be The Slayer, saving people!”

 

“Exactly. Every slayer is chosen with a specific mission in mind, but if they reach their mission or not is up to them. Destiny can't stop you from making bad decisions, or getting yourself prematurely killed. Only you can.”

 

Lance turned his cheek. He didn't want to hear this. He didn't want to hear Shiro explain his way around laissez faire homicide. And maybe it was true, but that didn't make it right.

 

“Whatever your mission may be, it could be the difference between life as we know it and all out Armageddon, and if you're not there at the end of the world, no one will be.” He spoke to Lance with that same compationable authority and unshakable candor that made you want to follow him anywhere. The moxie of a leader, qualities Lance would usually aspire towards instead of oppose. But this time- This time- “It's your job to save the world Lance, but it's my job to make sure you’re there and ready when the day comes.”

 

All at once, Lance felt like a river spilling into an ocean, an ocean turning into a whirlpool and a whirlpool growing into maelstrom, his powers somewhere between two opposing currents. They grew deeper and deeper with no desire to be filled but only to expand until he was like a sea that had outgrown its coastline. It felt instinctual. It felt proud. It felt right.

 

Lance took one step into Shiro's space, his chin jutted and posture obstinate, and with one finger jabbed into Shiro's chest, Lance said, “ _Then do your job_. Make me better. Make me ready. Because I have no intention of dying or letting anyone else die anytime soon ”

 

The frown Shiro had been glaring at him with lessened the longer Lance stood undeterred. He eyes flickered over Lance's face as if he was looking for something in him. The punch line, the fear, the Slayer, something. Finally, they dropped, his expression washed over in despondent resignation. The sorta face you wear when you've accepted something that you never intended to. He reached into the flap of his sportcoat and pulled out a stake. Sitting it down on the tomb, he let his palm lay flat over it before retracting his hand completely.

 

Lance, understanding the situation, finally began to feel himself retreat. Where had that impenetrable power gone? He had felt like, for a moment, he was the unstoppable force that could push back an immovable object, and all it took was a stake for him to doubt his own momentum.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Shiro looked down at the stake and then back towards him. “My job,” he said.

 

He felt the urge of fight or flight come over him, and had to physically put effort into not moving. Ignoring the instinct left him restless, itchy, trapped.

 

Just like Shiro taught Lance to do, Shiro closed his eyes, took a breath, and on the exhale-

 

“I have a brother your age. The things you'll have to do, I hope he’ll never experience,” he said, looking not at Lance but past him, distant yet solidified. “Because the life of The Slayer isn't an honour. It's a burden…”

 

“Shiro, I-I-”

 

“But it's also not a choice.” He cut Lance off, sparing him one pointed glance before saying, “She'll resurrect soon.”

 

Lance's eyes widened as Shiro walked around him. He looked back and forth between his schoolmate and the retreating form of his Watcher. That caged urge grew bigger, bubbling and bubbling until he could invisition himself running, feel his hands sweat from the want of it all. That feeling was too big, needed somewhere to go, and Lance, he- he couldn't-

 

“Shiro! Wait!”

 

His Watcher stopped and turned only half way towards him.

 

“I-I-I can't. We're in the same class together. She’s my schoolmate. She- she's-

 

“Lance,” Shiro said, “Breathe.”

 

And he did, only then realizing that he hadn't been. He instantly felt less flighty, as if the ground grew more solid beneath him. He repeated that a few times before nodding at Shiro, letting him know that he could do this just like he said he could.

 

“She’s not your classmate anymore, Lance. She's a vampire. It's your job to slay vampires, even when it's the hard thing to do.” Shiro faced the exit, and as he walked towards it, he said, “I can't protect you from that.”

 

The iron gate slammed behind him, leaving just Lance and a job to be done. Now he regretted thinking about it like that. As if snuffing out the last bit of a person's life was some mundane necessity, like bagging groceries or manning a cash register.

 

He didn't have these thoughts with the other vampires, but he had also never heard them hum the melody of Rihanna songs. None of them tolerated his pick up lines with a friendly smile and listened to him complain about the homework.

 

He knew what he had to do, that it was right, that she wasn't really living anymore. He knew living things didn't turn to dust when you stabbed them, but he also knew that sparkly pen girl wouldn't be sitting behind him tomorrow afternoon and that he was the only one who could've done anything about it.

 

A low moan had Lance jerking his head from the doors towards his schoolmate. For a while, nothing else came, until finally, she made another sound, something guttural. Something inhuman. Lance creeped over to her tomb and curled his fingers around the stake as he took the girl in. The parlor of her skin. Her unmoving chest and rigamortis limbs.

 

She had a family out there somewhere. She probably liked to play soccer and drink iced coffee and watch dumb movies with her friends. She had been a person and now she wasn't. Lance couldn't change that. He couldn't save her life but he could spare her from something worse than death.

 

It was like Shiro said. It was a mercy.

 

Lance lined up his stake with where her heart was before lifting. It felt heavier this time, and somehow preferring his crossbow now had nothing to do with aesthetic. He looked at her again before closing his eyes and tightening his grip around the stake.

 

Breathe in. Clear your mind. Execute on the exhale.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Playlist found here: https://open.spotify.com/user/22xlm3ztfp3ifdxcqhzzscsgi/playlist/6M6vsC4FdFl3SitQLSs7Aq
> 
> Lance skateboards home: Spooky by Dusty Springfield 
> 
> Lance slays his schoolmate: Murder song(Acoustic) by AURORA
> 
> Tumblr: theashesofthefirststar


End file.
